Before the Beginning, There Was the Myth
by Crystal Shores
Summary: Prologue to "The Phantom of the Radio City Music Hall". Absolute rubbish--written two years ago. Cut me a little slack!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Dear readers: forgive me for not updating in such a long time! But the storyline had some kinks, so I am re-posting this with new editing. Hopefully, I'll be able to get in contact with my beta so that she can fix the new chapter before I update.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera! If I did...well, let's just say that Raoul would have had to watch his back a little better than he did.**

**_This chapter is dedicated to anyone who thinks that Erik might have existed._**

**_Welcome aboard!_**

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**Prolouge **

The Phantom of the opera was written by monsieur Gaston Leroux. Of his many books, The Phantom of the Opera was his greatest success. Many of the French believed the story and when it was released in English, many more worldwide became believers.

But, for every believer, there were twenty non-believers. And so, eventually, it was fixed in everyone's mind that "The Phantom" was an interesting yet fictional tale. Some even went so far as to say that it was written for the sole purpose of advertising the Paris Opera House! For after it was published, the Opera House indeed saw more than it's regular stream of visitors.

Yet, that cannot be true! Say it isn't! For such a great moment in France's history to be thrown out into the world as merely an amusing story or an advertisement ploy! It should be written in every French and American history book there is! For indeed it was a very important turning point in both nations' histories.

"Why American," you ask? That, my dear reader, you shall not discover until you read this story to its end.

The Phantom of the Opera: a dark and passionate tale, full of mystery and romance; of music and tragedy; of love and loss. It is a tale we all know well. We know of Erik's life, his devotion to music, his worshipful relationship to Christine, his inexhaustible devotion to her, and (most importantly) his undying love for her. A love so great, that no matter what the cost, no matter how much it tore his heart; he (in the end) did what he had to do to cause her happiness. But alas! It caused his demise as well.

Yes we all know the story. Or do we? Was Erik fated to perish in the cellars of the very Opera house which gave him shelter? Was that the conclusion to the Phantom's tale? Or does the tale extend further than that? Although death of his love for Christine is unquestionably a very romantic and tragic end, is it the utter end? What if monsieur Leroux got it wrong? What if that wasn't the end of Erik's story, but merely the beginning of a new story? What would you say if I told you that "poor unhappy Erik" never died? What would you say, if I told you he lived?

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**A/N: I know; really short. Don't worry! There's much more to come. **

**Dark-Hearted Rose; PM me if you see this! I have a new chapter for you to beta!**

**Review!**


	2. Prologue

**A/N: Another chapter, another "I wish I could skip to the good part!" **

**-laments the poor grammar of this chapter-**

**I must have written this forever ago! Where the heck did I get these grammar rules?! Bear with me, please!! It gets better, but I haven't gotten in contact with my beta yet!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera!**

**_This chapter is dedicated to train whistles. I like them. :)_**

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Prologue 

The train Rosalie station was an old thing. These days, not many people used it. They used the one nearer to Paris, even though it cost more. Most just wanted to have the feeling of self-satisfaction that came with riding in a new train in their Sunday best. Their expressions seemed to say "look at me Paris! I am wealthy enough to ride this train!" In reality, it was only a tiny bit more expensive than Rosalie, but it _was _newer. And that is why Rosalie Station was scheduled to close two days from now.

No-one really cared, all that this meant was that another eyesore was being removed from their city's outskirts in the name of progress. So, at 5:55 a.m. on a Friday morning in October, no-one was present to witness the amazing events that unfolded there. If someone had been present, perhaps the later events in this story would never have took place. They might have reported something, something that would have changed everything. But then, there would be no story. And this story would never have been written. So that morning, only a stray cat saw the defeated-looking man sitting on the bench, waiting for the first train of the day.

He was dressed in a traveling cloak, and had a suitcase at his side. This in and of itself was not that odd. But the man himself was odd. His skin was extremely pale, and looked as if it had never seen the light of day. Half of his face was covered by a half-mask, such as those worn by actors in the opera. Yet he was not familiar from any of the theatres around that area, and the only place that the 5:55 train went was too far away from Paris to do much good for a Parisian actor. Any people that saw him would have thought him strange.

But the cat was to busy chasing a mouse to notice anything. In his hands he held a small, leather-bound book in which he was writing. His face (or the uncovered half anyway) was slightly furrowed in concentration. Let us peek into Erik's diary (for indeed, this was Erik writing in his diary.) and see what astounding things will surface on just how he got where he is. That is to say; not dead.

_Entry one of Erik's diary: _

**Diary,**

**When your name is Erik you have no friends to comfort and/or console your bitter weeping. Your heart-wrenching sobs are never heard. Your blood could flow openly, and no one would see. Your soul could be lost, and no mortal would mourn. Even death itself could not privilege you with it's icy yet welcome embrace. Woe unto any who try and comfort you! Woe unto them that try to ease your pain! For sadness and many troubling memories will follow them to the ends of their days. I didn't mean for it to be so, yet I am certain that she is haunted by the very memory of me. Oh, that I had never lain eyes on her unsurpassed beauty! Never heard her pure voice that shames the lark and dove, never known her pious and virtuous character. I regret ever meeting her! Yet, she gave me all the happiness in the world. Curse that fool Raoul de Changy! No, forgive me. I am not bitter. He, after all, made her happy….. But oh! How many times I have wished that I could have made Chr- Nay, I shall neither write nor say that name ever again. Nor shall I wish for things to change, fate should not be altered. But it can be cursed, and so I curse it. Curse that fate which condemns me to live as an unwanted wraith! Curse that fate which made me born into this hideous corpse! And curse that fate which took the only person that ever cared for me, ever cared at all. Even my miserable mother didn't care. But she who I shall not name did. Even when I let her go, she promised to come back and bury me with the ring I had given her. When I was certain I was at death's doorstep, I sent notice to the Daroga who, in turn, sent a notice to the paper. I was certain of death, but I did not die. Instead, I remained alive and received this letter. A letter so painful, that I cannot bear to copy it. Therefore, I shall place it here:**

_Dear Erik,_

_It may be that you are dead, so I do not expect an answer. Oh! Erik I am so sorry! Raoul believes you have set a trap for me, so he will not allow me to return. But, I promised, and I must uphold my honor. I have sent you the ring. It eventually, will be buried in the ground, as will you. So I have fulfilled my promise. Oh! Were it up to me I would come myself! Yet Raoul insists upon my remaining here with him. He has, however, promised not to read what I write. God save your soul Erik!_

_Sincerely yours,_

_Christine De Changy_

**De Changy, so she is now married. A trap, ha! No traps were set. I believed that I could truly die, and at last be free of this wretched curse of a body! But I cannot. It is nigh impossible.**

**But my heart is dead. I can no longer write or play or sing music. With her gone….my music has left me. I believe that someday, someone will research this tale. And so, I have taken a corpse from the church graveyard, and placed her ring upon it's dead finger. Hopefully, any fool who gets that far will believe him to be me. I am about to board a train. It is the first of a series of trains and ships that I shall ride to reach my final destination; New York City, New York, United states of America. France has abandoned me...so now, I abandon it.**

**Yours for the last time with this name,**

**O.G.**

_End, entry one._

From this entry, we can tell many things about Erik. For one; he tended towards the over-dramatic. For another, we can tell from this entry that Erik had laid a false trail of clues about his death and was leaving France. And that was why he was at Rosalie station. It is the most obvious choice, seeing as how nobody ever went there.

Erik abruptly looked up. A train whistle was blowing in the distance. He closed his diary and put it in his bag along with his pen. Puffing serenely along, the train pulled into the station. Erik stood up and picked up his bag. A conductor leapt out of the nearest carriage.

"All 'board!" shouted the elderly British conductor. "Come on you whippersnapper! I aven't got all day!" he yelled, for he had just seen Erik. "And what are you doin'; wearin' that unsightly 'alf-mask? This 'ere train ain't a circus train!"

Erik turned to him and replied, "If you wish to see something truly unsightly, remove this mask. But I must warn you, only one has seen my face and lived. And she lived only because I allowed her to." With this ominous declaration, Erik started to board the train. But he stopped short when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see the conductor standing there.

"Now look 'ere," the conductor said gently, "there ain't none who look like anythin' other then God wants 'em to. You just remember that when you is feelin' down." Erik stared at him for a moment, as if he was stunned, and then he quietly asked;

"What is your name?"

"Sean Mcguffy as sure as there is a sun." Replied Sean Mcguffy.

"Well Sean Mcguffy," said Erik softly, "thank you. You are one of the very few who have ever been kind to me. For this, I pray for God to save your…..soul." Erik stumbled across the last word, and a look of extreme sadness crossed his face. Those were some of the last words that _she_ had written. He turned around and walked up the steps into the carriage. And thusly, our true tale, begins.

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**A/N: As always; review! Next chapter is modern.**


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